


The Final Cut

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Series: Heroine Without Honor [8]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alinor, Assassination, Gen, The "One Last Job" That Doesn't Go To Hell In a Handbasket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 16:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16957611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: Sithia Dupre is on her most dangerous job yet: assassinating the Justiciar she suffered under years ago. But does she have any hope of surviving a second encounter with Elenwen?Sequel to"The Stalhrim Job,"featuringnotoftheskaal's Sithia Dupre. Takes place shortly afterCorruption of Blood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a sequel to ["The Stalhrim Job,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163970) as requested by [notoftheskaal](http://notoftheskaal.tumblr.com/), and it was a request that I was delighted to fill. Incidentally, it's also the last of my _Skyrim_ fics to be reposted to AO3, so enjoy!

The heels of her boots clicked on the marble floor as the elegant figure wearing the hooded black robes with gold trim that marked a Thalmor Justiciar entered the hall. The hall was beautiful — stonework so light and delicate it looked to be air, high ceilings painted with scenes from the history of the Isles and accented with gold leaf, brilliant stained-glass windows that cast the setting sun’s beams over the floor — but such lavishness was expected. Nothing less would do for the audience hall of the Conclave.

Striding forward, the figure approached the dais that curved around the end of the hall and paused before it. Nine thrones stood on it, all occupied by Altmer garbed similarly to her: save for the gold amulets around their necks, the pendant fashioned into a winged golden star. It matched the insignia on the black banners hanging behind them and between the windows, blocking some of the natural light from outside.

As if acting on a silent cue, the nine on the dais reached up and removed their hoods in unison. The figure did as well, revealing a narrow, thin-lipped face framed by pale blonde hair. The artfully applied makeup couldn’t quite hide the circles under her eyes or her slightly sunken cheeks, but she stood with her back straight and shoulders thrown back, as if she were a queen.

The Altmer in the center inclined his head in respect, but his hawk-like green eyes searched her, picking out every perceived weakness. “Elenwen Saururiil. It is an honor for the Conclave to be graced with your presence once more.”

Elenwen returned the gesture. One of an inferior race would fully bow, as would an Altmer of lesser status, but she was neither. “Grand Justiciar Morohtar. The honor is mine.”

Morohtar smiled: but only a perfunctory, polite one.

The Altmer to his right — the Justiciar-Premier of Alinor, a thin, waspish woman with red-shadowed eyelids — did not smile. “Give us your report on the status of Operation Priesthood, Elenwen. The Conclave is eager to learn of its progress.” Her tone suggested otherwise.

“Now, now, Lady Cymbaline,” Morohtar chided her. “Perhaps you could summon more enthusiasm for all that _Lady_ Elenwen has accomplished for the Dominion.” He addressed Elenwen now. “Truly, Operation Priesthood is a feat of strategy.”

“ _Will be_ a feat,” Cymbaline said archly. “With all due respect, Grand Justiciar, what has this operation accomplished beyond draining the Dominion’s coffers and depleting the ranks of our finest Justiciars?”

“For that, Lady Cymbaline, you would have to listen to the report that Lady Elenwen has brought before us,” Morohtar replied coolly. “I would suggest you do so, for your own sake. Ignorance is a trait unbecoming of a superiorly bred Mer.”

Cymbaline’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.

Taking that as her cue to begin, Elenwen folded both of her hands behind her back. “The first phase of Operation Priesthood continues in its success. The agents planted in Anequina and Pellitine report that rumors of the return of the Void Nights are spreading, with the side benefit of increasing the loyalty of the Khajiit in our just governance. And of course, more and more of my agents have returned to Alinor with the artifacts they were sent to recover.”

“Truly?” remarked the Justiciar-Premier of Shimmerene, a dignified, older man with carefully groomed hair and a goatee as white as snow. “You are a most efficient manager, Lady Elenwen, to ensure that there were no setbacks in these recoveries.”

Elenwen smiled graciously. “I thank you for your praise, Lord Ganlion, but the credit rightfully belongs to my agents. Still, there have been some stumbling points, all related to that most difficult of provinces, Skyrim.”

A few of the Conclave members chuckled knowingly. Even the ends of Morohtar’s mouth quirked up.

Cymbaline was not as amused as they. “More setbacks?” she exclaimed. “This Conclave was under the impression that Agent Valmir was the only casualty reported.”

“There may not be, Lady Cymbaline, but I have not recently received a status update from Agent Minorne. I have every faith in her, but you understand my suspicion.” Elenwen’s gaze was hard. “As for the death of Agent Valmir, my contact in Daggerfall assures me that the Dark Brotherhood will hunt down his murderer soon enough.”

The Justiciar-Premier of Dusk, an Altmer with narrowed eyes and skin more brown than yellow, cleared his throat. “While this meeting is turned to the subject of the Dark Brotherhood… may I express my condolences on the untimely death of your uncle, Lady Elenwen. If you desire a detachment of my personal guard to protect you, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, Lord Iomil, but Operation Priesthood is my main concern at the moment, not my uncle’s assassin,” Elenwen said stiffly.

“Well, I believe your priorities should shift,” Cymbaline retorted before Iomil even opened his mouth. “In fact, I believe _all_ of ours should. If an assassin, let alone the last Silencer of the Dark Brotherhood, has managed to infiltrate our cities and kill some of our most respected Justiciars, should that not be a cause for concern?”

There was complete silence in the chamber as all eyes turned from Elenwen to the Grand Justiciar, and then back to Elenwen: watching, waiting for the first move.

Morohtar spoke then. “Operation Priesthood is of primary importance, true, but I must admit that the reappearance of Sithia Dupre is indeed troubling. However, I hardly believe one woman can undo all that we have accomplished here and in the rest of Tamriel overnight.”

“And what if she is _not_ alone?” challenged Cymbaline. “We know the Dark Brotherhood to be still alive. Skyrim no longer belongs to us, Hammerfell is its ally, and the other human nations may join them if we are not careful. If Sithia Dupre has the backing of any —”

“With all due respect, Lady Cymbaline,” Elenwen cut in, “Sithia has a habit of working alone, and her solitude is both her strength and her vulnerability. If she should dare to make an attempt on any of our lives, there will be no one to help her. And if that time comes…” She smiled, cold enough to freeze flame. “Well, our problem should be solved quickly enough.”

 

The sunset over Alinor was nothing short of spectacular. The sinking sun’s last rays made the city’s impossibly high towers gleam with golden and scarlet light that danced over the shining walls and ramparts, almost blindingly so, and the waters of the Abecean Sea shimmered with the dying light and the beginnings of stars in the darkening sky above. The breathtaking tableau was accentuated by the near-silence: the gentle lapping of waves against the ship’s hull, the grunts of the sailors hoisting the rigging up above the deck, the cries of seabirds circling over the long docks jutting out from the harbor.

Sithia hated it.

Beside her, Finverior inhaled deeply and sighed wistfully. “Ah, that intoxicating aroma of sea salt and fish shit,” he remarked wryly. “I’d missed it so.”

Sithia looked at him dubiously. “Are you serious?”

Finverior shrugged. “I grew up in Woodhearth, right on the coast. Yeah, the smell’s foul, but it smells like home.”

“Alinor is no one’s home,” Sithia retorted. “No one except the Thalmor’s.”

“Well, _someone’s_ in a chipper mood tonight,” Finverior muttered, leaning back against the railing; the wind caught his hair and blew it into his face, and he brushed it away.

“Decades-behind security and retired Justiciars are one thing, but infiltrating Alinor is another entirely,” Sithia snapped. “So forgive me if I’m not as thrilled as you are about this job.”

“Only thing I’m thrilled about is that it’s our last one.” The wind whipped his hair into his eyes again, and Finverior finally tugged it together into a messy bun at the nape of his neck. “One more high-stakes break-in, one more assassination, and then we’re done. Hopefully not _dead_ ‘done,’” he added hastily.

Sithia arched a brow. “So much for _your_ optimism.”

Finverior chuckled. “I’m a pragmatist, darling. There’s a big difference.” He straightened up. “We’ll be docking soon. Time to go below and prepare.”

Sithia nodded, her narrowed eyes fixed on the glittering city beyond the ship’s prow. By now, the sun had almost fully vanished behind Alinor’s spires, its brilliant rays replaced with artificial, magical mockeries: all of the light with none of the warmth.

 _One more. Just one more._ Her lips twitched, then tightened into a thin, grim line.

_Either way... it’ll all be over soon._

 

Justiciar Daerwen watched with a critical eye as the sailors of the _Gem of Greenheart_ unloaded the cargo from the ship’s hold, hefting the wooden crates up and over the railing and down the ramp to the docks as if they were made of air. Most of the crew were Bosmer, with a handful of Khajiit and a single Orc; fortunately, according to the manifest he held in his hand, the captain was an Altmer, but Daerwen had yet to see him — _despite the fact that he_ should _be out here on the dock with his ship records, as protocol dictates._

Daerwen huffed quietly. _There are very few mariners of quality left in the world, and at least half of them have turned to smuggling on the side._ The reputation of Captain Hyvis was solid, true, but Daerwen knew as well as anyone in Alinor that even those most above reproach could be corrupted. _Only the steadfast Dominion endures._

Daerwen scanned the sailors scurrying on and off the _Gem_ , his gaze falling on a Bosmer standing barefoot on the docks, his wild gestures seemingly directing the flow of the chaos. “You there!” he barked, striding towards him. “Where might I find the first mate?”

Startled, the Bosmer whipped around at his shout. He was tall for one of his ilk and unshaven, with his head covered by a tightly woven bandana; his patched clothes reeked of dampness and fish organs, and Daerwen wrinkled his nose involuntarily.

“You’re lookin’ at him, sir.” The Bosmer immediately straightened up and saluted with unusually fine form. “Name’s Varilen, sir.”

“I do not particularly care what your name is,” Daerwen said sharply. “Where is Captain Hyvis? If he wishes to dock in Alinor, he must personally present his ship records and logbook to the proper authority.” _That is to say, me._

Varilen’s narrow face scrunched up in confusion. “Why’s he got to do that, sir?”

“To weed out illegal activity and ensure the safe passage of all goods onboard,” Daerwen said stiffly. “Now, tell me: _where is the captain?_ ”

Varilen suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable. “The captain is… uh, _indisposed,_ if you know what I mean, sir,” he said slowly.

“I am afraid I do not,” Daerwen snapped, folding his hands behind his back. “What exactly are you insinuating?”

Varilen’s amber eyes darted from side to side before leaning in. “Captain picked up somethin’ from a, ah, _lady of ill repute_ when we last docked, sir,” he whispered. “No clue what, but it’s got him holed up in his cabin, swearin’ and itchin’ his —”

“Yes, yes, I see,” Daerwen said hastily, cutting him off. _This is hardly the first time something like_ this _has happened… and I am hardly fooled by it._ “Take me to Captain Hyvis, please. I should like to chastise him for his poor conduct while I retrieve his records.”

Varilen sniggered, but hid it behind a cough. “Sure thing, sir.” He gestured towards the gangplank. “Right this way, sir.”

Sighing, Daerwen followed him up and onto the ship’s deck, the boards creaking under his feet with every step. Even though most of the _Gem_ ’s cargo had been cleared onto the docks, the smells of the sea — caked salt, tar, the waste of various animals — were stronger in their absence, and it was all he could do to keep from covering his nose with the sleeve of his robe. _An Altmer must always be composed._

Heading back towards the quarterdeck, Varilen opened the door beneath it and ushered Daerwen over the threshold and into a cramped hallway, barely high enough to accommodate his height. “Captain’s quarters are at the end, there, sir,” the Bosmer said absently, closing the door behind both of them. “No screamin’, so he must be sleepin’.”

“I am confident that he will not mind my disturbance,” Daerwen said flatly, heading for the door at the end of the hall. Seizing the doorknob, he yanked open the door and strode in.

Captain Hyvis’ quarters were small, and almost unspeakably messy. The bed was unmade, the wrinkled covers drawn up to the single pillow on the bed; the other pillow was on the floor, on top of a sloppily folded blanket. The chest in the corner was open, clothing and weapons in an unorganized heap within, and the desk was covered in papers; the maps and nautical instruments had been shoved to one corner to make way for what appeared to be a pile of blueprints and some scattered letters. The small porthole window was open, a faint breeze stirring the papers and making a slight, but persistent rustling sound.

The quarters were, however, completely devoid of life.

A muttered oath on the tip of his tongue, Daerwen stomped to the bed and threw back the lumpy covers. There was a hollow in the thin mattress, but no sign of the captain.

Irritation now turned to alarm, Daerwen whipped around just in time to see Varilen’s fist connect with his face. Reeling from the unexpected punch, he fell back onto the empty bed, his flailing limbs useless to slow his fall.

The last thing he sensed before the world went black was a new smell mixed in with the sea and the salt and the fish: the tangy, metallic scent of drying blood.


	2. Chapter 2

The manacles around her ankles were cold and jagged, the edges grating the tops of her feet every time she took a step — or rather, shuffled over the ground, stumbling forward as she was dragged along by the iron grip on her forearm. Her wrists were similarly bound before her, forcing her to hunch her shoulders in order to keep them from cutting into her skin.

Everything was cold in here: not just her restraints. The tile that her bare feet slid over, that the chains scraped against with a shrill, bone-piercing noise; the air that summoned goosebumps from her bare, trembling arms; the gauntleted hand squeezing her to the point where she couldn’t even feel that limb any longer — this place was a mausoleum, and Sithia couldn’t help but think, _I’m going to my death._

_No._ She pressed her teeth against her tongue, the sharp pain bringing her back to the present. _Not this time. Not again._

All too aware of her shaking now, Sithia sucked in a breath. Stale, recycled air from within the prisoner’s hood that covered her head and blinded her rushed into her lungs, calming her heartbeat for a little while longer.

Suddenly, her forearm was jerked back, halting her progress across the floor, and she instantly froze, her captured breath flooding out all at once.

“Halt, Justiciar.” A voice from before them: authoritative, but bored. “What is your business in the Palace of Justice?”

“Prisoner transfer.” The rustle of paper, so slight it was nearly muffled by her hood.

Sithia could almost hear the frown in the guard’s voice. “I was not notified of this.”

“Lady Elenwen Saururiil had her shipped in earlier this evening. It was an unexpected arrival, and there was no time to inform the _proper_ officials.”

“ _Lady Elenwen_ is a Justiciar no more, and therefore, lacks the privilege of holding prisoners in the Palace,” the guard said stiffly.

“But she maintains her offices here, does she not?” the Justiciar pressed. “And has she not been granted special dispensation by the Conclave to act in their name?”

A frustrated pause. “Yes,” the guard admitted, “but unless the Conclave ordered that this prisoner specifically be incarcerated in the Palace of Justice —”

“— which they have,” the Justiciar interrupted coolly. “It is of dire importance to the security of the Dominion that Lady Elenwen receive and interrogate this prisoner, and if you had looked at my authorization form, you would see that the Conclave has recognized that.”

Another rustle of paper, and an embarrassed throat-clearing. “My apologies, Justiciar.”

“I deserve them.” The Justiciar’s tone was decidedly snippy.

“Indeed,” the guard agreed hastily. “Do you, uh —” He stopped himself short and began again, his voice less unsure. “Do you require an escort to the interrogation chambers, Justiciar?”

“Thank you for the offer, _guardsman,_ but I would much rather have an escort to the offices of Lady Elenwen. Would she still be present at this hour of the night?”

A snort, instantly covered by a strained cough. “You must not have been to Alinor before, Justiciar. The dedication of Lady Elenwen to her duties is absolute. I speak for many in the Palace when I say that her commitment is an inspiring example.”

Sithia bit down on her tongue, almost drawing blood this time.

“The offices of Lady Elenwen are in the eastern tower, on the topmost floor,” the guard continued. “She arrived earlier this evening after an audience with the Conclave and I have not yet seen her leave, so you may still be able to gain an audience with her.”

“Excellent.” The Justiciar’s fingers dug into her arm: one, two quick squeezes — like a heartbeat. “I believe our business here is concluded.”

Almost before his sentence was finished, Sithia had already brought her hands up and tore the hood off her head. Blinking furiously as torchlight flooded her eyes, she saw the guard before her, his impressive golden armor doing nothing to negate the look of shock on his face. It would have almost been comical had he not been reaching for his sword with one hand and readying a spell in the other.

Her arms instantly shot out, and Sithia looped her chains around his exposed neck, yanking him close to her and then rotating at the last minute. The guard’s back was against her chest, and his shudders as he gasped and wheezed for breath ran through her bones. She merely pulled the makeshift garrote tighter and tighter, until his limbs finally stopped flailing and he went completely limp.

“Nice work.” Finverior removed the hood of his Justiciar’s uniform. “Your technique’s a little sloppy, but that can probably be chalked up to not having the right tools for the job.”

“This worked fine.” Sithia held up her still-manacled hands; the unfortunate guard slumped to her feet alongside the discarded hood. “Now get me out of these chains.”

“In a moment.” Lifting up the guard’s body by the arms, Finverior jerked his head towards a shadowy alcove cut out of the wall. “Let’s get in there and be quick about it.”

“How much time do we have before someone notices this sap’s gone?” Sithia grabbed the guard’s ankles, then her hood as an afterthought, and helped Finverior maneuver the body into the alcove, out of sight.

“Another guard on patrol passed while I was distracting this one.” Finverior bent down and removed the guard’s helmet, setting it aside and beginning to undo the straps on the breastplate. “We’ve got a little longer than I thought we would, but we still can’t dick around.”

“As expected,” Sithia said bitingly, dropping the guard and holding out her wrists. “Get me out of these chains. _Now_.”

Finverior sighed, but produced a key from his robe and reached up to unlock the manacles. She nearly let them fall to the floor, but thought better of it ( _a space like this is bound to echo_ ) and snatched them up while Finverior unlocked the cuffs around her ankles.

Exhaling in relief as the cold metal finally came away from her skin, Sithia massaged her wrists. “Where are my things?”

Finverior yanked up the hem of his Justiciar’s uniform and worked it up over his head, flinging it off and revealing the skin-tight leathers hidden underneath. Strapped to his chest was a cloth-wrapped bundle, and he undid the straps securing it and handed it to her with a triumphant flourish.

Sithia raised her eyebrows, but took them. “Weren’t you worried about my daggers nicking you?” she asked sarcastically.

“Couldn’t be any worse than the ones you stick into my heart on a daily basis, darling.” Finverior knelt and continued to wrangle the breastplate off the dead guard. “You should give me a little credit. That other Justiciar was a little on the skinny side; it took some very tight wrapping for your things to look natural on me.”

“You could have stuck them between your legs and no one would have known the difference,” she shot back, sitting down beside him to unwrap her personal belongings.

Finverior chuckled. “Trust me: I think you’d know.”

“No, I wouldn’t, and I never will,” Sithia snapped, spreading out the items in the bundle over what space she had on the floor. Her ebony shortsword and dagger, both presents from the High Queen after her last sword had broken and her dagger had been lost. Her Dark Brotherhood leathers, the red and black of them blending into the alcove’s shadows. A satchel of lockpicks, potions, and vials of poison: just in case.

“Not with _that_ attitude, you won’t.” Finally tugging off the breastplate, Finverior got to work on the gauntlets, then the greaves.

“That’s the idea.” Grabbing her leathers and turning around to face the wall, Sithia quickly shucked off her ragged tunic and threadbare leggings, then slid into her leathers, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. It was like putting on a second skin: close, secure, natural.

From behind her, she heard Finverior inhale sharply, and Sithia was suddenly aware of the cold air brushing across the scarred skin on her back. Stiffening, she hastily turned around and reached behind her neck to cinch the fastenings there, pulling them tighter than was necessary. To his credit, Finverior averted his eyes, focusing on pulling the left greave, then both of the boots off the dead guard.

Sitting down, Sithia grabbed her own boots and pulled them on, covering her bare feet, then tugged her cowl and her face mask into position. Her bandolier came last of all, with the satchel resting in the small of her back and the scabbards for her weapons on her hips.

She was prepared — or at the very least, _looked_ prepared. In the past, that had been enough to get her in the right frame of mind for a job: the whisper of leathers over her skin as she moved, the new-sharpened edges of her blades, the stillness of everything except for the beating of her heart... why use disguises when she could instantly strike fear into a mark just by _appearing_ before them, a wraith in black and red to herald their death?

So why, then, did she feel so woefully _un_ prepared?

“Let’s run through the plan again,” Sithia said brusquely, dismissing her intrusive thoughts. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Standing guard here until I can take out the other guard on duty,” Finverior answered promptly. “After I hide the body, I nip up to wherever the High Queen wants me to go, find whatever she wants me to find, then come back for you.” He started fastening the guard’s golden breastplate over his own leathers. “Presumably, you’ll have already done in Elenwen by then, and we can escape before anyone’s the wiser.”

“And _how,_ exactly, are we escaping?” Sithia asked tartly, crossing her arms over her chest. “Someone might have noticed the mess we made on the _Gem of Greenheart_ , and we only had enough money to bribe the crew into making a one-way trip.”

“Well, unless you want to trek overland and brave Thalmor territory any longer than we have to, sweetheart, we’re going to have to escape by sea.” Finverior tightened the straps on the breastplate, wiggled around in it, then tightened them a little more. “Maybe not the _same_ ship, but we could commandeer a dinghy and —”

“— die trying to cross the Abecean, let alone trying to get out of the harbor?”

Finverior sighed. “Have I ever told you what an absolute pessimist you can be?”

“You’re not the first.” Sithia carefully peered out of the alcove — _no sign of the other guard —_ then ducked her head back in. “I hate to say this, but we’ll have to figure it out later. We need to get going before someone notices.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Finverior yanked on his boots, then started on his greaves. “Help me with this damnable armor and I’ll be good to go.”

Sithia reluctantly bent down and fitted on his gauntlets — when his hands stopped moving, at least — and then picked up his helmet and jammed it on his head, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. Judging by Finverior’s wince, he seemed to think the same thing.

“It wouldn’t have killed you to be gentler with that,” he remarked, twisting the helmet into position. “I think you might have ripped out a chunk of my hair.”

“Half of it was singed off three weeks ago by that Thalmor wizard in Lillandril, and you can’t tell it was ever gone now. Your hair will be fine.”

“If you say so.” Picking up the guard’s sword and sheathing it at his side, Finverior stood. “You ready?”

Sithia rose with him. “I was waiting on you, remember?”

Finverior chuckled. “Anyway... good luck with this,” he said, sobering, “and — if anything should happen to either of us, it was an honor knowing you... Lady Killer.”

Sithia raised her eyebrows. “We’ve been on this mission for who the fuck knows _how_ long, and you’ve _just_ come up with a nickname?”

“I know, I know. Shameful, isn’t it? But seriously —” he clapped her on the back, his face set and determined now “— good luck, darling. Here’s hoping we come out of this.”

Sithia smiled grimly. “Here’s hoping.”


	3. Chapter 3

The Palace of Justice was markedly different from the other buildings Sithia had infiltrated on her mission around the Isles. Where most Altmer architecture was light and airy, ornamental while being deceptively sturdy, the Palace was much more candid about its strength. The corridors she’d crept through thus far were all built of stone with arched ribs and flagstones on the floors, the one concession to finery being the pale grey color of the stone.

And, mercifully, they were not particularly well-lit.

_That’s what you get for substituting brackets and torches for balls of magelight._ Sithia almost snorted, but remembered at the last minute to stay silent. _Mages._

Carefully, she inhaled, filling her lungs with cold air. Now more than ever, she needed to make sure she was completely silent. Moving unseen was no issue, but a step coming down too hard, a gasp for air, or worse yet, tripping and falling... any of those echoing down the hall would alert any number of Thalmor soldiers to her location and then her plan would be ruined.

_But where_ are _all the guards?_ Underneath her face mask, a frown creased her forehead. _This is a prison; it should be crawling with them._

Aside from the guard she’d strangled at the entrance and the one Finverior had seen making his rounds, she hadn't seen any other Thalmor, period. After three — almost four — floors, three more staircases, and a chain of endless hallways all leading her to the eastern tower, there had been no sign of any guards or Justiciars, let alone her quarry.

Sithia ground her teeth. _Does she think I can’t possibly find her?_ she demanded of herself. _Does she think she’s impervious to me?_

_Or worse: is she lying in wait for me?_

Sobering, she peered up and down the winding staircase that circled upward into the darkness. Too narrow, not enough to march a number of soldiers up — but just right for a single Justiciar to fire destruction magic down.

Shuddering despite herself, Sithia glanced around her. The entrance to the eastern tower was down the hallway behind her, where she'd come from. _That_ was considerably wider; soldiers marching two-by-two could easily get through it and surround her.

That left the windows.

Tiptoeing over to the nearest one, Sithia examined it critically. It was tall and thin, and a little on the high side — not a window, then, but an arrow loop. No, it was too wide for that and archery was not a preferred skill amongst Altmer; it was more likely that spells could be fired through this.

Gripping the edge of the window and walking her feet up the side of the wall to the windowsill, Sithia stuck her head out, and then twisted her body to the side and fit her shoulders through experimentally. It was a tight fit, but she was small and slight enough that it would work if it came to that.

Craning her neck up, she reached an arm out and ran her hand along the stone outside the tower. It wasn’t as smooth as what was inside, with definite grooves where mortar separated the stone, but not even the Altmer would hold a prison such as the Palace up to the aesthetic standards of a true palace. If the rest of the way up the tower was like this, she'd be able to scale it.

The only problem was her equipment. The soles of her boots had excellent grip and she had grappling hooks in one of her pouches, but she had very limited rope. Even if she had enough rope, there was no chance she could use it and one of her hooks as an anchor; if the hook caught on a windowsill of an occupied room...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of light reflected in the corner of her eye: bright and bobbing. _Magelight._

Without thinking, Sithia squeezed the rest of her body through the window. Gripping the windowsill, she inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and dropped herself over the edge.

All her breath shot out of her lungs as she plummeted, and her eyes clenched shut involuntarily. Her fingers nearly slipped and her shoulder sockets protested, but she managed to hold on. Her feet kicked out, finding gaps in the stone to seek purchase in.

Sithia struggled to steady her breathing as she pulled herself close to the wall, tensing as she heard the footsteps echo down the hallway within. Fortunately, they did not falter, and she soon heard them fade away.

Sithia sighed internally. _Looks like my route was chosen for me._

Bringing one knee up and out and splaying her legs over the wall, ducking out from under the window and grabbing hold of the stone, she started to climb.

 

Hiding in plain sight _never_ got old.

Finverior strode down the hallway, his armored boots clanking against the flagstones. Normally, such heavy, echoing footfalls would have made him wince — _after all, a loud assassin is a dead assassin —_ but a fully armored and armed Thalmor guard trying to tiptoe down a corridor was guaranteed to attract attention.

_And I don’t want to be noticed until the right moment._

From somewhere around the corner, out of sight, a second pair of footsteps joined his. Finverior abruptly slowed, turning his purposeful gait into a more meandering, uncertain one until he stopped in front of a random door, just as the Thalmor Justiciar — a _real_ one, not just wearing the robe as a cheap and convenient disguise — came into view.

Finverior turned, letting relief flood his face. _Showtime._ “Justiciar,” he called, his voice turning clipped and precise, “would you deign to assist me?”

The Justiciar paused, turning his head; he looked mildly irritated at being interrupted from his course. “What is your business, guardsman?”

Composing himself, Finverior held up the bundle of papers clutched in one hand — the “missing” manifests from the _Gem of Greenheart_ , but there was no need for the Justiciar to know that. “Lady Elenwen bade me return these records to the Palace Archives, but…” He looked around, as if baffled. “I seem to have gotten lost.”

The Justiciar shook his head. “Clearly, you are new here,” he sighed. He stepped forward, peering at Finverior’s helmeted face, and his eyes narrowed. “How one of your racial standing was ever selected for your position is a mystery.”

Finverior bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from retorting.

“As they are, the Archives are not open to common guardsmen, let alone one of a lesser breed, without a Justiciar escort,” Justiciar continued stiffly. “I will spare you from the Lady Elenwen’s intended humiliation, but if this becomes a recurring event, expect to find yourself bereft of employment — if you are fortunate.”

Finverior inclined his head in an imitation of respect. “I consider myself very fortunate at the moment, Justiciar.”

The Justiciar smiled sourly. “Even more fortunate than you would think, guardsman. Your bumbling breach of protocol at least landed you in the correct wing of the Palace.” He turned and swept down the corridor in the direction from whence he’d came. “From which department did those records come?”

Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Finverior hurried after his unintentional guide. “I believe Lady Elenwen said that they belonged in the Operations Department —”

The Justiciar snorted, the indelicate gesture somehow managing to sound incredibly snooty. “Records from Priesthood, no doubt.”

“I would not know, Justiciar,” Finverior responded immediately, keeping an eye on the doors that they passed. _I’ll need to retrace my steps sooner or later, and it would help if I knew where the fuck I was._ “Surely you do not think that I had looked at confidential files.”

“One never knows what to think.” The Justiciar’s voice was cool, but cutting. “I am surprised that more do not know of _Lady_ Elenwen’s harebrained scheme.”

“You disagree with her methods, Justiciar?” Finverior attempted to sound surprised and a little fearful. _A free-thinking Thalmor. Tonight is full of little miracles._

“I bear no grudge towards the Lady Elenwen, but just as a tool is fitted towards its purpose, so is an operation towards its goals.” The Justiciar paused at a particularly heavy-looking wooden door and produced a ring of keys from the sleeve of his robe. “If she truly wished to cripple the northern province, she would stop toying with her food and merely put the pretender king and his criminal queen out of their misery.”

_Not so different from the general consensus, then._ “That is what I would do, Justiciar,” Finverior dutifully replied. “Neglected enemies oft prove dangerous.”

“Well spoken, guardsman.” The Justiciar sounded grudgingly impressed. “If only more within the Conclave had more practical concerns.” Inserting one of his keys into the lock and turning it, he withdrew the key and pushed open the door.

Almost instantly, Finverior pushed him inside and slammed the door behind both of them, whipping out the needle-thin dagger concealed in the papers. “I don’t think you’ll have that problem with me.”

 

_Fools._ Fools, _every single one of them._

Elenwen glided up the spiraling steps, her grace projecting an air of calm; the only indication of her stormy mood was the tight set of her jaw. Auri-El knew she’d had to hold her tongue in front of the Conclave before, but Cymbaline’s scorn alone was enough to test even _her_ restraint.

_“What if she’s not alone” — ha!_ Elenwen’s upper lip curled ever so slightly. _If the_ _Justiciar-Premier_ _knew_ half _of what_ I _know about my dear Sithia, she would dismiss her notions of a “threat” as easily as she did Operation Priesthood._

In any case, the assassination of her uncle — or, for that matter, any of the other Justiciars that Sithia had killed — was of no import to her. Justiciars of their rank might not be easy to come by, but there were always Altmer to train and replace them: ones possessed of good breeding, a firm grasp of magic, and just enough ambition to drive them to succeed and keep them loyal to the Dominion. _Besides, old Ruvilan was past his prime.  Altmer of his advanced years and poor mental state have no business in official government positions._

The door to her office came into sight at the top of the stairs, and Elenwen lifted the hem of her robes so as to allow her to ascend quicker. Drawing out her key and unlocking the door, she stepped inside and relocked it behind her.

The magelights she’d previously cast into the empty torch brackets on the walls had gone out, and Elenwen recast them with a flick of her fingers. The air in her office was surprisingly chilly, and she frowned with distaste. A glance towards the fireplace confirmed her suspicions that it had also gone out, and with a wave of her hand, that was soon remedied.

A soft flapping sound caught her attention, and Elenwen peered deeper into the chamber, trying to discern the source of the noise amidst the eerie glow of the magelights and the shadows cast by the fire. Some loose papers on her desk flapped in the slight breeze, and she hurried over to her desk, moving a ledger over them to keep them from flying away.

_Where did a breeze come from?_

Elenwen’s head suddenly shot up, and her heart stopped at the sight of the shadowy figure standing on the windowsill, limbs splayed out to lock her in place. Even in the half-darkness, she was instantly recognizable.

“Hello, Elenwen,” Sithia spat.


	4. Chapter 4

The silence in the chamber was like a shroud: stifling, deathlike quiet. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing moved in the still: not the loose papers on the desk, not the drapes framing the open window, not the two women staring at each other from the shadows that hid them.

The cold breeze brushed a stray lock of hair across Elenwen’s forehead, and it brought her out of her stunned state, a thousand different questions assaulting her mind. _How did she know where I would be? How could she even get this far into Alinor on her own? How did the Palace’s guards not notice her by now?_

But there was no doubt in her mind _what_ Sithia was here to do.

_Distract her,_ she decided, the cunning honed during her Justiciar training kicking in. _Find her vulnerabilities, and then strike. It will be over quickly and quietly._

“Hello, Sithia,” she finally said, with all the gentility and calm she could muster. “Do come in, my dear. You must be tired after your journey.”

Sithia did not move from the window, though Elenwen noted some slight movement underneath her facial mask that might have a sneer.

Elenwen sighed. “Where are your manners, my dear? Is _that_ how you, an honored guest of mine, react to my hospitality?”

“I know what your... _hospitality_ is like.” Sithia’s words came out like a whiplash. “And what you do to your ‘honored guests’.”

_Keep her talking. Get her to reveal_ something _before her unfortunate demise._ “I meant no offense, my dear,” Elenwen said, giving her a placating smile. “In fact, you are in very good company.” Reaching for the decanter and the goblet at the corner of her desk, she uncorked it and poured herself a drink. “I have entertained noblemen, priests, generals... even the High King of Skyrim himself.”

It was difficult to tell in the gloom, but Sithia’s eyes widened for an instant.

“It was Ulfric, was it not? The one who gave you the contract on my life?” Cradling the goblet in one hand, Elenwen took a dainty sip, watching the other’s reactions closely. “Or his wife, perhaps?”

No reaction, beyond the deepening of the glare on Sithia’s face.

“My student did good work with the High Queen, but I fear he did not go quite far enough.” Elenwen sighed. “Orthorien inherited his teacher’s unfortunate tendency to… become _attached_ to playthings.”

“I am not your _plaything_ ,” Sithia snarled, lunging forward. “And I’m not anybody’s fool. I came here myself.”

Elenwen raised an eyebrow. “By yourself? What a feat, my dear.” She finished her drink, a slight tingle of energy beginning to course through her veins. “You always did work alone, as I recall... a blessing and a curse.”

Sithia said nothing.

Putting down her goblet, the magicka potion now blazing in her blood, Elenwen smiled. _You keep making the same mistakes, my dear Sithia._ “Of course, that just means that you have no one to help you now.”

With that, she thrust out her hand and sent a bolt of lightning coursing towards the figure in the open window.

 

Finverior scanned the stacks from under the pointed edge of the hood of his Justiciar’s robes — the second set he’d pilfered off a corpse this night, but fortunately, these ones were a little roomier — and watched closely for any sign of movement around the towering shelves and in the gaps between them and the ledgers they held. Fortunately, this particular section of the Palace Archives was as still as a graveyard.

_No interruptions for my search, then._ Finverior picked an aisle at random and started down it, scanning the spines of the ledgers as he went; his efforts were largely useless, as the only marks on the leather bindings were etched numbers with unknown meanings. _I’ll need all the time I can get, anyway._

Despite his time spent as an army scout for the Dominion during the Great War, Finverior had little knowledge of what actually happened with his reports once he’d handed them in to his superiors. He’d supposed at the time that they were mostly destroyed — after all, the Thalmor prided themselves on the stealth of their operations — but seeing shelf after shelf of ledgers was changing his mind about that.

_As much as those bastards fancy themselves spies, they’re accountants at heart,_ he thought bitterly, turning the corner and pacing down another aisle. _Everything needs to be documented, and everything needs to be in its place._

On a whim, he pulled out one of the thinner ledgers and opened it up. It was a minor operation, detailing the “subjugation and elimination” of a second-rate bandit clan nearby Bruma ( _that close to Cyrodiil’s northern border, they were likely Nords and Talos-worshippers,_ Finverior noted dryly). The date was 4E 169: only two years before the Great War began.

Finverior grinned to himself. _If these operations accounts are in chronological order, what I’m looking for should be a little easier to find._ He closed the ledger and carefully replaced it. _For once, the Dominion’s sense of meticulous organization will be used against them._

Reaching to the facing shelf, he took out another ledger and checked the date within, not even bothering to read what the operation was. Six years before the last one he’d plucked out.

Sliding it back in its place, Finverior continued to the end of the aisle and turned left, summoning a ball of magelight in one hand as he walked. This far away from the magelight bobbing in the brackets by the doors, the Archives were substantially darker; with the lack of windows shutting any moonlight out, they were darker still.

He counted nine shelves stuffed with ledgers before he reached the very last shelf in the room. Leaning up against the stone wall, darkened wood groaning under the weight of bundles of faded parchment, this shelf seemed as if it would fall apart if he so much as _breathed_ on it.

Grasping one of the bundles, Finverior carefully removed it from the shelf, undoing the cloth wrappings around it. The parchment crackled as he lifted the first sheet up, trying to make out the date inscribed on it. It was 4E 22.

_Well, I’m in the right place._ Finverior coaxed the ball of magelight a little closer to illuminate the spidery writing on the page. This operations account dealt with the assassination of an Altmer lord “in grave opposition” to the then-new Thalmor policies.

_Typical Dominion. Join or die._ Wrapping the report back up and putting it back in its place, Finverior scrutinized the top shelf. It contained several bundles of parchment, then bound together into larger bundles; there were also several thinner folders of cracked leather that stuck out at a precarious angle from the shelf.

Standing on his tip-toes, Finverior snagged one of the folders and opened it up. There were few words on these papers, as they were mostly taken up by detailed, painstakingly labeled diagrams: diagrams of the sewage systems underneath Alinor.

Finverior grinned. _I’m_ definitely _in the right place._

 

As soon as she saw the sparks on Elenwen’s fingertips, instinct kicked in. Tucking her limbs in, Sithia did a quick roll forward, off the windowsill and into the chambers; the lightning sizzled over her head and into the night outside, barely singing the back of her cowl. She leapt up into a crouch, plucking the dagger from her belt and hurling it at her target.

Elenwen instantly conjured a shield and batted the weapon away from her chest, sending it clattering to the ground. “You always were difficult, my dear,” she said tightly, her dignified facade slipping. “And it seems you continue to be.”

Drawing her sword and rising to her feet, Sithia smiled viciously. “Good.” She lunged forward, blade angled at the other’s heart.

Elenwen brought her shield around, deflecting the blow with one hand and conjuring an ice spike in the other. “That was no compliment,” she hissed. “You have been a thorn in the Dominion’s side for long enough — to say nothing of the trouble you’ve caused _me_.” She released the ice spike, burying in Sithia’s side.

Grunting at the sudden rush of pain, Sithia staggered back, but still slashed out with her sword. Elenwen’s shield held against the blow, but then it snapped out of existence, sending the blade slashing across her torso. Elenwen gasped in shock, bringing both hands up to the wound, blood mixed with a viscous midnight liquid dripping on her hands.

“You’re not the only one with a few tricks up her sleeve.” Grabbing her dagger from where it had fallen on the floor, Sithia drove it into Elenwen’s shoulder, throwing her whole weight into the motion and sending them both falling back onto the rug.

Elenwen tried to scream, but her jaw seized up as it opened halfway, leaving her with a horrified look frozen on her face. She struggled in vain, trying to summon a spell, but the thrashing of her limbs ceased as the paralysis poison locked her joints and the magicka poison drained her energy.

She didn’t have much time before the poisons worked their way through her blood. Crouching over Elenwen’s chest, breathing hard from the freezing wound in her side, Sithia planted her feet on both of Elenwen’s wrists — just in case — then lifted her sword high above her head.

Elenwen stared up at her, eyes wide and filled with an emotion that Sithia would never have thought to see on her face: fear. It might have been her imagination, but it almost seemed like she was… _pleading_ with her.

_Pleading for mercy... well, I know what_ I _got out of_ that.

“Oblivion’s too good for you,” she muttered to herself. “Go to the Void — and fucking _stay_ there.”

A rattling breath escaped from Elenwen’s throat, and one of the wrists trapped under her boot flopped feebly.

Face like stone, Sithia brought the blade down, and silence fell once more.

 

When Finverior entered the chamber, he found Sithia sitting on the floor with her knees tucked up to her chest, staring at the corpse lying next to her. Judging by the corpse’s blonde hair and bloody Justiciar’s robes, Sithia had completed her mission.

Shutting the door behind him, he cleared his throat as loudly as he dared

Her head snapped up. “What?” she snapped, but her voice didn’t have the same sharpness that it usually held.

“Well, for one, I’m back,” he offered.

“Really?” she said sarcastically, standing up. “I didn’t notice.”

Finverior noticed the frost-rimmed gash on her side instantly. “Not sure if you noticed yet, Lady Killer,” he started slowly, “but you’re... slightly wounded.”

“It’s nothing,” she muttered, wincing. “My leathers stopped most of the damage.”

“Still: it wouldn’t do to have you pull off the assassination of the century, then get caught because of your blood trail.” Finverior approached her, summoning a golden ball of light in one palm. “May I?”

Sithia tensed for an instant, then nodded. Finverior directed the healing spell to her side, breathing steadily to keep the spell’s momentum going as the golden light knit up her muscle and skin, then faded into a faint glow as the damage healed.

“Thanks,” Sithia said curtly, bending down to pick up her sword and wrench her dagger out of Elenwen’s shoulder; both gleamed with traces of poison. “Did you get whatever the High Queen wanted?”

Pulling his stolen Justiciar robes over his head and tossing them onto the desk chair, Finverior gestured proudly to the leather folders strapped to his stomach. “All that I could without arousing suspicion for my unusually toned physique.”

“What are they, anyway?” Sithia grabbed the corner of his discarded robes and started wiping off her weapons.

“Mostly architects’ plans for the city of Alinor — including a very painstaking map of the sewer system. Even snagged some blueprints for the Palace of Justice and some other government buildings. All of them were filed alongside _this_ —” he reached down and tapped a scroll that had been tied to the inside of his thigh “— which happens to be one of the very first operations accounts in the Archive.”

“And that is?” Sithia sheathed both sword and dagger at her side.

“Operation Summer Dawn,” Finverior intoned with no small amount of disdain. “The Thalmor’s takeover of the Summerset Isles and the coup of its government.”

Sithia frowned. “Do you think that the High Queen’s plotting an invasion?”

“Gods, I hope so. The Dominion can’t come down fast enough.” Finverior nudged Elenwen’s body with his toe. “Might be too late to undo the damage they’ve done, but...” He tried to smile encouragingly. “Tamriel will be better off without them.”

Sithia was silent for a moment. Then: “I used to dream about killing her,” she said quietly. “I must have killed her a thousand times in my sleep: stabbing, poisoning, drowning, strangulation... all of it.” Her mouth curled, giving her expression a sour cast. “To see her dead now feels... unimaginably underwhelming.”

Finverior nodded. “Can’t say I’m unfamiliar with that feeling.” _Sometimes, death just isn’t good enough for some people._

“Wish I could have made her suffer a little more.” Sithia knelt by Elenwen’s body again, pulling out her sword. “But at least it’s over.”

_Sometimes, that’s all you need. An end._ “What are you doing now?”

Sithia smiled, a vicious white slash in the near-darkness. “You give the High Queen her papers. I’ll give her husband something else.”

 

When the Palace guards finally broke down the door to Elenwen’s offices and moved the desk that had barricaded it from within, they found two things. One was the former First Emissary to Skyrim, lying on the rug in a pool of blood and poison — and missing her head.

The other was the piece of parchment on her chest, held in place by an ebony dagger driven between her ribs. Under the image of the black handprint were two words:

_WE KNOW_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading (and if you've been following my AO3 reposting since it began, extra kudos to you; I don't know if I could have done it myself)!
> 
> _**BrunetteAuthorette99** _


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